


a silence surrounded (in white noise)

by ronsenburg



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Sword Fighting, an obvious lack of fencing knowledge on the part of the author, angst that comes with a noble’s role in carrying on a bloodline, friends to awkwardly pining allies to reluctant enemies to lovers, maybe internalized homophobia if you squint, why is playing with someone else’s hair such an intimate act?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronsenburg/pseuds/ronsenburg
Summary: “You know, for someone who claims to be so self-disciplined, you really don’t keep up appearances.”Felix grits his teeth, his hand tightening just the slightest on the grip. “Quit talking and advance already.”“If that’s what you want,” Sylvain shrugs, “But when I win, there’s a ribbon in my bag with your name on it. How do you feel about pink?”This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.





	a silence surrounded (in white noise)

**Author's Note:**

> You ever start playing a new video game and then three hours in have to put your controller down and write something because the characters speak to you so loudly? Yeah, that’s what this is. I started this right after watching their C level support scene, finished it right after B level. I apologize in advance if it doesn’t entirely align with canon, but I couldn’t rest until I’d gotten it out

There was a time when Sylvain had loved parties.

When they were younger and more carefree, he had found the display of the nobility’s decadence to be something of a game. Whether it was the roaring fires in every hearth, the piles of food and drink on each table, or the sound of laughter mingling together all around, they’d been nothing more than fun. When they were small, these banquets were an excuse to run the halls of whatever great house happened to be hosting without a chaperone, playing knights and barbarians, escape from the dungeons, or whatever other game they’d thought up that day.

But then, just days after his thirteenth birthday, he’d arrived at the latest banquet only to be waylaid by his father. Sylvain was steered by the elbow from one table to the next, now set on the noblest quest of meeting eligible young ladies with plenty of coin to their names. Hiding under the tables with Felix and Ingrid was suddenly unacceptable. He was meant to act the part of the dignified, crest carrying heir, worthy of whatever match would be deemed most suitable by those around him.

It put somewhat of a damper on all festivities thereafter, especially once Ingrid had been roped into the circus as well, forced to dress in the gowns of the upper class ladies instead of her typical tomboy attire. Even after he’d learned to play the type of games his father demanded of him, the charade continued.

If his father wanted a charming young noble, popular with the ladies and eligible for courtship, that is exactly what he intended to be.

So, Sylvain doesn’t remember her title, only the high pitched tinkling of the laugh she gives from behind a delicate, gloved hand. It isn’t a coincidence that they’ve ended up in precisely this position; Sylvain had chosen her deliberately from the crowd of other girls lining the main hall to meet a certain set of criteria. For example: her hair is piled in loops of warm brown around her head, fashionable enough to require the help of a maid, but not extravagant enough that his attentions are likely to offend without a proposal of marriage. It makes things easier this way.

It doesn’t take much to charm her, just a few winks and the kind of half smiles and flirtatious comments that elicit a blush every time. When he stands to guide them from the room to a more private alcove, Sylvain catches a glimpse of dark hair glinting in the chandelier’s light, almost like the flash of a raven’s wing in the early morning sun. He turns swiftly before their eyes meet, and takes his new companion by the arm.

Later, when he kisses her behind the statue of Saint Cethleann in the atrium, the soft press of her lips against his and the cloying scent of perfume on the air are almost enough to drown out the memories lingering at the back of his mind———

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

It is _far_ too early for Sylvain to be awake and gripping a fencing foil reluctantly in his hand. They are standing in the middle of a training hall on one of the lower floors, alone except for the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight against bare stone walls. Their silhouettes dance in fragmented patterns in the corners of his eyes as they circle the floor, more like the fluttering of caged birds then two sparring partners.

“You agreed,” Felix replies, with the smallest inclination of his head to serve as a shrug. Of course, Felix would never compromise his defensive stance for a gesture of emotion, even against a friend.

All in all, it’s an unfair fight. Felix has excelled at sword fighting since they were old enough to lift a blade; his speed and creative mind give him a natural talent at exploiting flaws in any partner’s defense. Flaws of which Sylvain has many. It calls for creative tactics of his own.

He bends the foil experimentally in his hands. “You know, for someone who claims to be so self-disciplined, you really don’t keep up appearances.”

“You can’t distract me like that,” Felix replies, shifting his weight onto the ball of his right foot, a tell that he was almost certainly about to strike, “I know all your games by now.”

“I’m just saying, you’d look more handsome with that hair of yours tied back. I’m sure any girl would agree. Just because you’re a member of House Fraldarius doesn’t mean you have to look like your father, you know.”

The words land more surely than a physical blow, Sylvain can see it in the way Felix’s eyes widen minutely from the other end of his foil just moments before he steps forward into his attack.

“It’d probably make you a better fencer too,” Sylvain continues, pivoting easily away from Felix’s thrust, “I bet you would’ve landed that hit if it wasn’t for the hair in your eyes.”

Felix grits his teeth, his hand tightening just the slightest on the grip. “Quit talking and advance already.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sylvain shrugs, “But when I win, there’s a ribbon in my bag with your name on it. How do you feel about pink?”

“You, win?” Felix snorts, avoiding the question completely, “As if.”

“You’re always so overconfident, Felix. It doesn’t make for a very attractive trait.”

“And what would _you_ know about being attractive?”

Sylvain’s free hand raises to his chest in a gesture of mock injury. “You don’t think I’m attractive? I’m hurt.”

“You’re also an idiot,” Felix returns, and lowers his stance, “When I win, you’re coming to five-am training for a month.”

“How heartless. Guess I can’t lose then, can I?”

Most of the time, taking these kinds of training exercises seriously is far too much work for Sylvain. Felix treats each sparring match like a fight to the death, pressing forward with every strike as though he really is attempting to subdue an enemy opponent, not help a fellow student improve. It’s usually easier to keep up the facade for a few minutes, long enough that Felix thinks he’s actually trying, before “stumbling” or missing a critical strike that leaves his flank vulnerable to the other’s follow-up attack. That way, Felix feels as though he’s bested Sylvain once again while Sylvain gets off injury and responsibility free. It’s a win-win situation.

But with an early wake-up call on the line, plus the tantalizing possibility of humiliating Felix for a change hanging just within reach… Sylvain steps forward, shifting his own center of mass until he’s reached an acceptable position. A small smile plays at the edge of Felix’s mouth. Of course, Sylvain still doesn’t expect to win. That’s just what life is like with someone like Felix for a best friend. But, win or lose, he certainly plans on giving the other a run for his money today.

It comes as something as a surprise to both of them, then, when some minutes later, Felix hesitates mid-step on the final point, as though his attention has been suddenly averted from the match. It isn’t much, but it’s exactly the kind of opening that Sylvain needs. He parries Felix’s floundering attack and quickly strikes, taking two steps forward while Felix is still trying to regain his defensive position. The mistake makes his footwork sloppy and sluggish; Sylvain has no problem utilizing his lack of speed to place the tip of his foil squarely against Felix’s chest, just over the heart.

“Ha! I win,” Sylvain crows, pumping his fist in the air. It’s a very unsportsmanlike display, but this kind of celebration happens rarely enough that he considers it part of his reward.

Felix is frowning, his gaze cast somewhere to the side in ungracious defeat. “You got lucky.”

“Just admit it, I’m better than you give me credit for.”

An indignant “hmph,” and a roll of Felix’s eyes is the only further response he receives.

“Now there’s just the matter of my prize,” Sylvain says, striding to the edge of the room where he’d discarded his bag earlier. From inside, he pulls a ribbon, rose pink and made from the finest satin. He’d bought it to give to a girl from the village that had been giving him trouble, but this seemed like a far more noble cause. He holds it up before Felix like a trophy. “I’ll borrow a brush from Ingrid. We can meet in my room tomorrow.”

“No,” Felix scowls, “Now or not at all. You choose.”

“Guess I’ll use my fingers then,” he shrugs and sits on the floor, patting the ground in front of him expectantly.

It takes Felix a moment to comply, his reluctance apparent in the slow, guarded steps he takes forward, as though the ribbon in Sylvain’s hand is a dangerous weapon and intends to attack at any moment.

Sylvain laughs. “Sit down, I’m not going to bite you… unless you’re interested in that kind of thing.”

If anything, Felix scowls harder, but still sits quietly in front of him all the same.

Sylvain starts by pulling his hands through the dark strands to try and untangle them from the exertion of the fight. It’s difficult work, at first, with Sylvain’s fingers catching repeatedly in complicated knots that elicit comments from Felix like, ‘_this is what torture is like, isn’t it?_’ while Sylvain laughs gently under his breath. Eventually, though, the tangles give way. Sylvain watches the strands glide through his fingers, suddenly struck by how dark they appear against the color of his skin. It seems impossible that he wouldn’t have noticed the almost violet sheen that raises from it in the torchlight, or how soft and fine Felix’s hair feels as it tumbles from his grasp.

Sometime later (Sylvain can’t be sure how much, it seems to have ceased to matter) Felix gives a barely audible, obviously involuntary sigh, leaning his head ever so slightly into Sylvain’s palm. For a moment, Sylvain hesitates, his heart unexpectedly picking up a faster rhythm, though it’s already been minutes since the fight ended. He swallows thickly, now aware of the fact that Felix is sitting so close, that there is something shockingly intimate about the sight of Felix’s neck with his hair pushed aside, arched slightly into Sylvain’s touch. Without thinking, he runs a thumb over the fine, short hairs there, fascinated somewhat by the way the skin prickles up in reaction.

But the movement, as soft as it was intended, breaks the spell. Felix pauses, back straight as a board with tension and suddenly very still.

“You okay over there?” Sylvain asks, leaning to glance into Felix’s eyes. His chest presses against Felix’s shoulder with the motion; whether it’s his imagination or not, he couldn’t say, but he could swear he feels the other shudder through the fabric of his coat.

Felix has always been quicker than the rest of them. He turns before Sylvain has even processed the movement, strands of dark hair dragging roughly through Sylvain’s fingers where they had been tangled only moments before. There is a moment where time seems to slow to an absolute standstill, where Felix stares back into Sylvain’s widened eyes with some mixture of resoluteness and trepidation.

And then, just as suddenly, the moment ends.

Sylvain has kissed his fair share of girls in the past. Most of them had been soft, gentle exchanges stolen behind closed doors while their respective parents had been otherwise occupied. He is used to shyness, to the hesitance of propriety that comes from a noble upbringing. But there is nothing meek in the crush of lips against his now. Felix kisses like a tactician pressing a sudden advantage in battle, leaning into him as relentlessly as an all-out attack. The only sound Sylvain hears is the rush of blood past his ears as his eyes slip closed, relenting to the pressure of Felix’s lips and the hand resting at his hip, burning like a brand through the fabric.

It’s more a feeling than a thought that drives him to lift his own hands, one coming to cradle the side of Felix’s jaw while the other takes up its former position in his hair. Felix makes a soft noise, almost like a gasp at the reciprocated contact, his hand skimming up Sylvain’s side for better purchase as his lips part slightly. Sylvain’s shirt, untucked in movements from their earlier sparring, is dragged along with it. Sylvain can feel the rough calluses left by the hilt of a sword on Felix’s palms resting against his ribs.

The contact of skin against skin, though, is like a bolt of thunder, shocking enough to act as a moment of clarity as the situation finally dawns on Sylvain. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. This is _Felix_, of all people. He pulls back suddenly, hands scrambling for purchase on the stone floor behind him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait,” he demands, pushing himself backward and to his feet. “What the hell was that?”

“You were flirting,” Felix replies simply, as though it is obvious. He looks like something wild, his hair mussed from the work of Sylvain’s hands and falling about his face in tousled pieces. The flush of his cheeks is nothing new- he looks as though he’s just come back from a match- but his lips are reddened and gleaming from the attention of Sylvain’s mouth. The sight has such a strong effect on Sylvain that he has to drag his gaze away before he can manage to reply.

“I wasn’t-“ he begins, struggling, “-that didn’t _mean_ anything! That’s just how I am!”

Felix’s tone is flat. “You kissed me back.”

And Sylvain should have an answer to that, really. Something about post-exercise adrenaline or victory endorphins causing him to act irrationally. It would make things easier for both of them. But all responses die on his already parted lips as he realizes that he _had_ kissed Felix back and, more than that, he’d enjoyed it. What that meant was something that Sylvain wasn’t willing to examine. At least, not right now.

“I’m going,” he says, deliberately avoiding the narrowed amber eyes aimed in his direction as he picks up his bag from the floor. “I have a date.”

Felix doesn’t move as turns toward the iron door handle. There is only silence and the sound of Sylvain’s wooden soles still reverberating against the flagstone floors. As it opens, noise from the rest of the manor filters in, the chattering of maids from the floor above mingling with the clattering of the knights’ chain mail. Life moves on around them.

As he closes the door behind him, Sylvain is almost certain he can hear Felix sigh, but it is impossible to tell in all the background noise. He doesn’t turn back to check.

———It never takes long for Sylvain to tire of a conquest. His attention nearly always begins to waver the moment the girl gives in, all the fun extinguished when the challenge has been removed. Tonight, however, his attention span seems particularly short. Memories of Felix seem to be lurking behind every corner tapestry, creeping up when he least expects it to tug at his attention. It makes it difficult to focus on anything else, especially something as demanding as a girl.

He leaves tonight’s conquest at the bottom of the manor staircase, murmuring glib placations through his wide smile about calling on her again soon. Of course, it’s a lie. He couldn’t write even if he’d wanted to; he’d forgotten her name almost as soon as she’d said it. At least she doesn’t seem too upset with the whole situation. No doubt she’s already composing a letter to her dear Mama back home, detailing her night with the Gautier heir. _Imagine the acclaim,_ he expects it would say,_ if I were to bear a child with a crest!_ He snorts derisively and leans his elbows on the window sill in front of him, staring out onto the lawn below.

Of course, solitude can never last in such a large house. He’d expected to have been found out by a maid or one of the other servants, but Sylvain supposes Ingrid is the most likely second choice. After all, she knows him, far better than he’d sometimes like to admit. He’s become so accustomed to her silhouette in full riding gear, however, that he almost mistakes her for just another girl when she steps up beside him draped in heavy velvet.

The footfalls are what give her away; ladies of court learn early on how best to walk with tiny, dainty steps that give the illusion of floating silently across a floor like gossamer silk. But Ingrid has never been a lady in anything more than a title. She steps with purpose and authority, even with layers upon layers of embroidered skirts swaying around her ankles instead of the press of chain mail. You would have to be blind not to see the knight lying in wait underneath.

“Need a break from the party?” he asks, glancing over to her with a grin when she settles at his side. There are tiny opals braided into the strands of her hair; they catch the light from the sconce burning somewhere behind them and cast an array of fiery colors back into his eyes.

Ingrid says nothing.

Outside, the full moon casts a pale light on the grounds around the castle, glinting off the surface of the dark lake and catching up in the blades of grass that have recently been painted white with the oncoming frost. He should be used to the way winter descends upon the valley by now, the way it works it’s cold fingers into every tiny nook and cranny until the whole kingdom seems frozen in time. He shivers and turns his gaze from the window and back to the torchlight.

“Do you actually enjoy it?” Ingrid asks finally, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the glass window. Unlike the frosted landscape behind him, her tone is already burning with the intensity of concern that only she seems able to muster for him these days.

Sylvain laughs. The sound reverberates off the empty stone walls, echoing around them with an uncanny quality that feels hollow and empty in the repetition. He doesn’t have to ask what she means; it seems like all their conversations these days revolve around this particular argument. “Some more than others,” he replies, eventually. In case she misses the not-so-subtle innuendo, he winks.

Ingrid rolls her eyes but doesn’t scold him the way he expects her to. That makes him more uncomfortable than anything else. Instead, she asks, “When did you become such a good liar?”

“About the same time you did, I’d guess.”

She scoffs. “I don’t lie. Not like that.”

“People like us always lie,” he quips, smirking in a way that doesn’t seem particularly kind, “The trick is convincing yourself that it’s the truth.”

“Have you convinced yourself?”

“I’m getting there,” he admits. It’s the closest thing to the truth he’s said in so long now that the words feel heavy and awkward on his tongue, as though they are liable to choke him if he swallows them whole. “Of course, the assistance a few more beautiful women ought to speed the process along.”

Ingrid frowns, the expression drawing dark lines across her forehead in the candlelight.

“I don’t know who you’re trying to hurt anymore,” she says, “It can’t be _them_, I don’t think they matter to you at all.”

Sylvain gives an exaggerated wince in response. “You know, that’s pretty harsh, even for you.”

“No, that’s the truth,” she replies, shaking her head the way she does when she’s particularly frustrated. The gemstones in her hair click together softly with the movement, in gentle punctuation to her words. “Who is it you’re trying to punish, then? If it’s him, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“Who?” Sylvain asks, deliberately vapid.

“Stop playing stupid. Felix told me what happened.”

Sylvain gives one of the elaborate shrugs he’s quickly become known for. “Listen, I’d like to apologize for whatever it is you’re mad at me about, but I really don’t know what you mean.”

For a moment, Ingrid’s eyes go stormy, like the sky just before a particularly violent storm. Sylvain braces himself for the slap he can feel coming in the way she squares her shoulders against him, her mouth turned down in a hard line. But then, just as quickly, the storm passes. Ingrid’s gaze melts into one of pity, gentle and sad. Something about this expression is so much worse; he wishes she _had_ hit him.

“What happened to you?” she asks softly, “You used to be better than this.”

It shouldn’t bother him so much, the look on her face or her obvious disappointment in him. But he would have thought that she, at least, would be on his side. She knew what it was like to feel trapped, didn’t she? A low flame of anger rises in him then, breaking through the surface and into his tone. “I’m only doing exactly what everyone expects from me. Why can’t you ever cut me some slack?”

“Because I care about you,” she replies. “But I care about Felix, too.”

“Did it ever occur to you that whatever happened might be none of your business?” he demands. “You’re not my mother, you know.”

It’s bait, pure and simple. He expects her to rise to it, to see the resentment he knows lingers from being the sole girl in their group. That, at least, would be normal. He could handle that. But Ingrid only frowns.

“You can’t punish yourself like this forever,” she says, placing one of her hands against his shoulder. Between the insulation of her glove and the padded fabric of his dress coat, he feels the gesture only in the slight pressure her fingers leave behind. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, instead shrugging her hand off and placing his chin back on folded arms as he stares out the window. A cloud has moved in front of the moon, throwing the grounds beyond into darkness. The only thing that Sylvain can see in the window is his own reflection, distorted by the waves in the glass.

A moment later, the sound of heels begins to echo off the corridor walls in sharp staccato, signifying her retreat. He listens to the sound until it is nothing but a gentle tapping down the banister. Then there is nothing but silence once again.

This time, it is Sylvain who sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought to you by the song White Noise from flor. There is a second, angst-with-a-happy-ending part to this, but it’s set after the time skip and most DEFINITELY won’t follow canon because I haven’t gotten there yet :) Let me know if you’d like to see it, but please no spoilers if you’re sweet enough to leave me a comment! 
> 
> If you’d like, come hang out with me at my [tumblr](http://ronsenburg.tumblr.com/) to listen to me quietly scream my way through the rest of the game. Thank you so much for reading!


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